Thy Kingdom Come
by Woe Kitten
Summary: The story of Paul Morlock's life before Kingdom Hospital.
1. Chapter 1

_  
A body, swathed in bloodied sheets; the gaunt, terrified figure convulsing, blood erupting from the wounds permeating the raw flesh. His eyes started to bleed and gush pints down his emaciated, drawn out face. He whispered something; blood trickling from the corners of his mouth. "Someone, help me. Please." The face goes pale white and his eyes lull back into his head. Incoherent strings of words bubble from his mouth in a sort of mantra, "Graves and roads of the mislead, be greeted by the walking dead. They croon, they cry, they taunt the weak; beware the tongues in which they speak. Be cast into the fires of Hell as Mary rings her small brass bell." A cry; a hallow, empty cry -that of a small girl child echoed through the deepest corners of a deep, sadistic dream... rather, a nightmare._

Paul sat up in bed, his breathing labored and abrupt. He rubbed at the scar below his right eye and the puffy, swollen purple and green contusion, concluding that he hadn't even gotten a solid two hours of sleep; his forehead feverish and clammy. Paul Morlock's lucid dreams had steadily gotten worse over the past few months, and this one was the worst they had ever gotten. The crotch of his pajama pants were drenched in cold sweat, and the sheets stuck to his skin like wet latex plastered to his lank body. His skin was beaten raw, and even the light brush of the sheets against his fragile skin made him cringe. He kicked the sweat soaked sheets from his body and set both feet on the floor, adding his weight a little at a time, first the toes, then the heels, as to not agitate his swelling ankle and shifted his jaw from side to side to diminish the stiffness and cramping.

"Goddamn cunt's gonna put me in my grave early," He muttered, wiping the crusting film from his eyelids and lashes and stepping lightly on his heels towards his closet door. The entire door was busted from it's rusted hinges; (a violent, explosive result of one of Rob's previous rants that had left Paul's room, and his psyche in complete shambles) and now lay on the floor, bolts and nuts scattered around it. Splintered wood peeled grotesquely from the sides like spikes threatening to impale anyone who dared approach it's dusted remains. He reached into the now gaping hole in his wall that had to suffice as his closet until he managed to get to the hardware store downtown to pick up some new lumber and fashion a new door. He was used to fending for himself like he had been since he was old enough to walk.

He rummaged angrily through the few articles of clothing he had, fingering the dusty and deteriorating fabrics. His mother, Kate, as he called her, was far too poor to purchase him any new or used clothing and truly didn't give a damn that he had practically nothing to wear, spare the ones he had on his back. He tore his starch-heavy, yellowed dress shirt from it's crooked metal hanger and threw it to the floor, later joined by his black slacks and musty red suspenders. Paul carefully pulled his baggy white tee from his sweating back. Goose bumps riddled his bare chest and stomach, and the hair on the back on his neck stood on end as the frigid night cold caressed his naked torso. He rushed to pull the dress shirt over his raven locks and buttoned it up to the solidness of his solar plexis, adjusting the collar.

_  
This is going no where. All you do is go down to the goddamn river and smoke the shit outta a few packs of cigarettes. That solves nothing, Morlock. _He tugged at the wet pant legs of his pajamas, struggled out of them, and then pulled on his slacks. He muffled a cry as the fabric tore at tender, raw skin, breaking free some fresh scabs and abrasions. As soon as the pain subsided, he limped across the room to his old dresser and nudged open the top drawer, searching for a pack of Camel cigarettes. Finding an old, crumpled, deteriorating pack and a set of matches that he had snatched from Rob, he shoved it in the breast pocket of his shirt and snuck silently from his room. The floor boards creaked beneath him, caving in where the floor had begun to rot. He kept wondering to himself_, Why didn't Rob just help Kate move her ass into his goddamn house? _

He slunk past Kate's closed bedroom door, from which behind Rob's and her laboured moans could be heard. He rolled his eyes in disgust and gave a silent grunt to himself. _Yeah, that's it Rob. Fuck her raw. Fuck her hard enough to maker her walk bloody silly for a couple days. _He made his way down the hall, into the kitchen to grab a few beers, hustled to the front door, and fiddled with the rusted pad lock before managing to squeal it open. The overhead street lights blared, stinging and irritating his dialated pupils. He stressed over the overwhelming pain that plagued his ankle, holding his breath and ushering a hiss every time it throbbed, every time he took another step. Lucky for him, the Androscoggin river wasn't far from his prison cell of-a-home. The cement slates that hugged the steep inclinations on both sides of the Androscoggin river were littered with beer cans, cigarettes, food bags and the occasional condom. Paul sat down, hanging his legs from the side rails and cracking open his pack of cigarettes. He struck the match head on the cement and lit the cigarette, sealing it between his lips and occasionally switching it from side to side nervously.

"You got it ALL wrong Morlock. Nothing heals pain like a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of beer to wash it down." He muttered to himself out loud. Paul ran his fingers through his sweaty, matted hair and looked down at the placid water, smoke curling from his nostrils, the lighted butt of the cigarette sending flecks of orange embers alighting to the ground and lighting up his pale, emaciated face. Paul strained to crack the uncomfortable kink in his knuckles. Each had tiny hairline fractures that hurt like hell every time he tried to work them. He'd punched one to many walls in his day, and now he had done permanent damage. All of them had healed over wrong, and he doubted that there was any way to fix the problem.

He took one more glance over the peeling hand rails and into the river. Looking into the water was like looking into a deep abyss without end. Dark, dank, quiet surrounded and embraced the cold, frigid air. A pocket watch bubbled to the surface, soon followed by a bloated, human hand.


	2. Chapter 2

"Holy SHIT!" The beer bottle slipped from his sweaty palm and bobbed strenuously along side the emerging, bloated arm. Paul stood up and backed away before he accidently leaned forward and toppled in. The cigarette shifted nervously from one corner of his mouth to the other as he cautiously shoved his hands in his pockets and shuffled closer to the edge to get a better look. He glanced around, looking for a trench in the dirt at the ends of the cement slates. His legs twitched nervously as he cuffed up the sleeves of his shirt and skid down the slight incline of the muddy path aside the large cement slates. The water was frigid; as water is at 2 AM in the morning and stung at his flesh bitterly as he submersed his right hand. He muttered beneath his breath,

"Cold is as cold does," and waded in a little farther; fathoming that the vicinity where the body was floating was only a matter of three feet deep. The water was now waist high and every body part below belt level fell numb; he adjusted his cigarette before it plunged into the river waters. The hand still jutted out from three feet of ice-cold H20, but now, a burley, meaty wrist was protruding from the gnarled phalanges. Morlock groped helplessly below, searching for any other extremities that might be of some sort of assistance. He marveled as he brushed against a foot and a bony kneecap and dragged the heavy body behind him back in the other direction.

He managed to extract the torso above water before it slipped from his grasp and baggily slumped to the clouted dirt. Paul let out a steady stream of breath before rubbing at his eyes; imagining that what horror lay ahead of him was just the alcohol. It wasn't. The limp form was horridly mangled; beaten, bruised, completely and lugubriously defaced. The eye sockets were empty; save for the loosely hanging network of nerves and tangled muscle fibers. Coagulated blood cascaded from the gaping pits and down the burly man's high set cheekbones. He raised an eyebrow and cleared his throat, searching for a source. At the nearby factories, they disposed of the over- worked laborers in unmarked graves; rarely deep, state wide rivers. These wounds were unlikely in such a condition as well.

Paul felt the uncomfortable feeling of being watched and swung around on his heals, digging them deep into the dirt and clenching his teeth. He nervously twitched; the digits of his fingers pulsing, filling with blood and becoming numb and weightless. He let out an, excruciatingly painful breath of air and become conscious and vigilant.

"Hello?" No answer. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and his eyes darted uncomfortably between the clumps of brush excluded only feet from the rivers edge. He inched closer to the low shrubbery. A figure sat, slumped among the branches littering the ground; then shifted so light illuminated the strangers face.

"Jesus Christ, Rob; you almost gave me a heart attack!" Paul stumbled back and ran his fingers through his hair.

"What are you doing out this late, boy?" Rob was a slender, tall man with stern features and rust-colored catacombs for eyes. His dark-brown hair sat atop his head in a matted mess. He couldn't imagine Kate running her scrawny digits through his hair.

"I could ask the same of you. Kate get sick of fucking a man with no balls?" Rob fisted the collar of Paul's dress shirt, his knuckles tight up against his throat and tugged him in; breathing hot air down his ice cold cheeks.

"Quit sassing, boy. You've got a smart ass mouth. You learn to watch it we might get along fine." Paul strained to loosen Rob's grip.

"Loosen up, you tight BASTARD; you're hurting me!" Paul struggled; buttons falling loose from the upper half of his shirt.

"You've got to learn some manners, Morlock. You keep sassin' your step father, you gonna wind up dead. You got that?" Paul cringed; Rob's fingernails making red bleeding nicks on his pale neck.

"GOT IT, KID?" Rob shook Paul furiously awaiting an answer. Paul prepared to sock Rob in the stomach.


	3. Chapter 3

"Rob!" Kate burst through the open folds of branches towards the both of them. "Cut it out!" Her mascara was bleeding down her drawn out face and her robe stuck to her sweaty body. Her naked, long legs forming goose-bumps. Paul hated the way she acted so protective of him when she frankly could give a damn.

"What's going on here?" Both Rob and Paul loosened up a bit and backed away from each other. Rob cleared his throat.

"Just fetchin' the brat. He snuck out and..." His wife's eyes weren't meeting with his.

"What's that over there, Paul?" The thin lady placed a scrawny digit over her full lips and with the other pointed in the direction of the river. Paul scratched his forehead with his middle finger and sighed. Rob made his way over to the limp figure, elbowing Paul in the stomach as he passed. Paul grimaced.

"Looks like the kid's gonna be getting himself into a heap of trouble, Kate. It's a body. Boy, what you been doin'?" Rob eyed up the scrawny boy, his shirt half open and his eyes sunken and dark.

"I didn't _do_ anything. I found it floating in the river." Rob squatted down, the open zipper of his pants protruding from his odd position.

"Maybe some kind of industrial accident of some sort?" He muttered.

"Bullshit, Rob. That's not some kind of industrial accident. Wounds are post mortem." Rob stood up and pointed a thin finger at Paul.

"You shut up, kid. You're in enough trouble as it is." Paul's eyes narrowed like a cats and he growled beneath his breath. His jowls stiffened.

"Should we call the cops and report a homicide?" Kate asked, brushing her sticky, matted auburn hair back from her face. Rob stood up and rubbed the palms of his hands on the calves of his jeans.

"I suppose its not such a bad idea." Paul shifted. "I'll run back to the house and phone the cops." He turned to sprint back to the house, only to have Rob's muscular fingers dig into his boney shoulder. He shouted.

"You're not going anywhere, Morlock. You're staying here with the goddamn body."

"WOULD YOU JUST LET GO OF ME, YOU GODDAMN FUCK?" Paul pivoted on his back leg and sucker punched Rob right in the kisser. Rob fumbled backwards and cupped his face in his large palms. Blood gushed from the crevices between his fingers and he howled in pain.

"You've just earned yourself a whoopin', boy!" Rob charged and Paul with fierce speed, knocking the boy to the ground and wrapping both bloody fists around his scrawny neck, pushing down on his larynx. Paul gasped for a breath and attempted to knee Rob in the groin, but not managing to muster up enough strength. He began to black out, the corners of his vision blurring and darkening.

"My god, Rob! You're going to kill him!" Kate screamed, trying to wrestle a man twice her size off her son. Rob let go, the knuckles of his hands turning back to their regular, beat red color. Paul gasped and tears streamed from his eyes. He felt like he was going to vomit.

"You know as well as I do, Kate. This boy needs to learn a lesson."

"Yes, Rob, that may be true, but the kid doesn't need to get the shit kicked out of him. You can find a better way. I know you. Think."

_Great. So they were gonna gang up on him. Just want he wanted. Single, Rob had not a brain cell in that nut of his. But with Kate behind door number three, they'd come up with the best punishment they could._ It took Rob quite a while, but the cogs kept turning and he finally spoke up.

"I think the kid should get a job, Kate." Rob rose an eyebrow and nodded. He shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled, a grim, creepy smile, spreading across the whole bottom half of his muscular jowls. "I know Mr. Gottriech, the old feller 'cross the street is looking for an assistant. The boy might want to put that nasty little mind of his to some real use." Kate smiled as well, her pretty lips curling beneath their bright rosy lipstick.

"Good thinking, Rob."


	4. Chapter 4

1Paul kicked at Rob's face, nearly breaking his nose.

"Lemme go! Let me GO, goddammit!" He screamed before Rob had a chance to wrap his burly hand around his jaw and clamp his mouth shut. He clenched his jaw in anger and attempted to spit into the palm of his step-fathers' hand, only to receive a wad of saliva smeared across his bottom lip. The man dragged the small boy beside him, kicking, screaming and flailing. The old, bent over man in the doorway of his practice grabbed the collar of Paul's shirt as he hissed angrily at Rob who pretended to choke back tears. "You bastard! You sick -" Gottriech wrapped yet another frail hand about Paul's muzzle as if he was a misbehaving dog.

"I promise I'll take care of the lad. He's in good hands now." Gottriech said in an unmistakable, heavy drawl. His wrinkles tightened as he ushered a creepy smile and looked down at Paul's pale face. As Rob disappeared into the stale smelling vehicle at the end of the driveway, the shady, ancient doctor shoved Paul in through the cracked door frame and into a small front room. Broken, wooden chairs with rotting arm rests were scattered haphazardly about the room. A dim light hung lazily from the white washed, cracked ceiling.

"Welcome to your new home, lad. Hope you find it to tickle your fancy, cos' you'll be here for quite some time. Lets get you through a physical, shall we? We need you to be in tip-top shape." The old fellow gave a queer smile and dug his thin fingers into Paul's shoulder. They maneuvered into another room, this one complete with a cold, unwelcoming examination table.

"Hop right on up there laddie." Paul did as he was told, after only a slight look of discomfort and hesitation. He swallowed, his throat dry and coated and most likely swollen from his fight with Robert.

"So, what's your name, my child?" Paul wrinkled his nose at the smell plaguing them. What was it? Cyanide?

"Paul. Paul Morlock." He licked his lips, dragging his tongue against the rough edges of the chapped skin and cleared his throat.

"And you're what, fifteen or so Paul?"

"Are we gonna sit and chat or are you gonna get down to business?" Paul heckled.

"Just answer my question." Gottreich's pale, calm face gave hint to a bit of anger.

"Turning 16 next summer, sir."

"Now is Rob your father? Is that where you get your smarts from, my boy?"

"He's my step father," Paul, said, cocking his head to one side and tightening his balled up fists. "And Rob's a fucking tool. The only reason he's around is because he pays my mother's rent." Gottreich ushered a chuckle.

"Well, let's start the examination then." He tugged at Paul's pants and suspenders to loosen it enough to check his heart.

"Watch the hand, doc." Paul hissed. The stethoscope was extremely cold on his revealed chest and he cringed.

"Ticker sounds good."

"Have other patients, Shortimer?" Paul said through clenched teeth.

"Quite a few, actually. As my assistant, you will be attending them quite frequently while I'm away on house calls."

"You do know that working here was my Rob's idea; it was against my will. You're in for a surprise if you think I'm gonna slave my ass off just for you. I'm no child laborer."

"You have a nasty attitude, my boy, and I wouldn't mind putting a boot up 'yer scrawny ass if you talk back to me one more time, ya hear? Maybe you should go through my rigorous mental health test and we can properly diagnose the reasoning behind those problems of yours." Paul's jaw clenched and he swung at the old man, decking him just below the eye socket and made it bleed. Gottreich yelped in pain, only to fist the collar of Paul's dress shirt and placed thinning knuckles upside his trachea.

"You listen and listen good. I wasn't put on this earth to take your bullshit, boy and I'm not gonna start now. Besides being antisocial, you must have suppressed rage issues as well." He loosened his grip and let the scarwny boy go, then looked him squarely in the eyes. "I have just the solution to your problems. You start tomorrow. Get a decent night's sleep, then you can wake up bright and early and start cleaning this goddamn office. You hear me, kid?"

"Whatever." Paul said through pursed lips and slunk off the examination table. He sauntered off down the long hallway, looking for a suitable sleeping quarters. Rows and rows of dark, sparsely lit rooms scattered haphazardly through the hallway. He spotted a door at the end of the hallway, a blue, faint light slipping out beneath it. He rapped his knuckles gently on the old wood. No answer. The door swung open, giving view to a huge, glass and steel tank in the middle of the floor. Crystalline fluid filled the tank to the very brim, giving way to tiny scatters of neon blue light dancing and fluttering on the cement floor.


End file.
